Break the Chains
by Cyberwolf
Summary: (chapter 4: 'A Gathering of Forces' is up) People begin to converge; Mos Eisley is about to get some new visitors. Pieces falling into place. Slicer's life about to get lots more interesting.
1. Prologue

I cannot take this anymore 

_Saying everything I've said before_

_All these thoughts, they make no sense_

_I found bliss in ignorance_

_Nothing seems to go away_

_Over and over again_

_Just like before_

_            -One Step Closer, Linkin Park_

            There was no more hope.

            Obi-wan Kenobi stared into the expanse of sand that was the Jundland Wastes with eyes as bleak and empty as the Wastes themselves. His face was slack and pale under its desert tan. He was looking at the desert with his eyes, but what he was seeing was his past. And all the mistakes in it.

            When he had arrived on Tatooine, he had immediately set up residence here, on the edge of the Jundland Wastes, the most gods-forsaken place on the already gods-forsaken planet. Part of the reason was his half-brother's very firm insistence that Obi-wan keep his distance, and that he never _ever_ make contact with them. It was imperative that Owen be guardian over Luke, so Obi-wan acquiesced at once. 

Closer to the heart of the matter, though, was that such a place made it possible for Obi-wan to remain in solitude, remain in mourning for Amidala, the Old Republic, Naboo, the Jedi Order…and Anakin. Gods, gods, _Anakin_. 

            To be with people, other people, would require normalcy. To be normal, even just acting, would require a measure of…moving on. And moving on meant forgiving himself, and accepting what had happened. Obi-wan couldn't quite bring himself to do either.

            It was also that reason that kept Obi-wan from keeping an eye on Luke through the Force. Luke's presence in the Force was too much like Anakin's – a thousand burning suns, not a single bit of quiet or gentle glow in the aura like with most Jedi. Oh no, not a simple Force-glimmer for Anakin Skywalker. He didn't glow or even shine, as the Masters did when in especial communion with the Force – he _blazed. _Always. 

It was beautiful – no work of art, no panoramic vista could compare with that Skywalker Force-presence. Everything about it was fierce and powerful, all starfire and lightning, flashing blue and gold and silver and white.  When Anakin was newly-come to the Jedi Temple, Obi-wan remembered all the Force-sensitives – everyone from the youngest of the initiates to Jedi Masters – stopping to watch him whenever he passed. Not so much him, as in physical presence, as the aura he cast in the Force. It was the same with Luke. 

            Obi-wan had laid a blanketing on the boy's Force-sense, to hide him from Palpatine and Darth Vader. But he only had to peer a little beyond it, concentrate a little on Luke, to see the brightness underneath the veil. And to feel all the sorrow and regret again. 

            So he did not often reach out in the Force to check on the son of his former pupil. He trusted Owen to watch over the boy until…until the time came.   
            How he cursed himself for that, now! 

            It had been because that day was the eighth anniversary of their – meaning Luke and Obi-wan's – arrival on Tatooine, that the old Jedi had reached out through the Force to touch, however briefly, Luke's mind. 

            He could not find him. 

            Panic set in immediately. As he jumped into his landspeeder, he chanted the Jedi Code over and over again, and continued chanting it as he sped towards the Lars homestead. His first glimpse of his half-brother did not do anything to alleviate the fear coursing through Obi-wan's veins. The man had been half-drunk, and slurring all his threats at Obi-wan.

            Despite his normal aversion towards things of this nature, Obi-wan had little trouble in delving deep into Owen's mind to see what was happening. At the end of it, he had been dangerously close to cleaving his own half-brother from nave to jaws with his lightsaber. 

            Both Owen and his wife had very weak links to the Force, and in the myriad of deaths that took place everyday on Tatooine, Obi-wan had not felt the passing of Beru. Since he kept his distance from the Lars – both physically and mentally – he had not known the abuse Owen, in his swift descent towards alcoholism and brutality, had been heaping on poor Luke's head. 

            Luke had run away from home. And in his inexperience, had run straight into the desert without any of the gear necessary to survive in it. The sands covered his wind-scoured bones, now. 

            Obi-wan had left his brother as he found him. It had required a great effort to do so. The temptation to kill (torture, maim, make suffer) Owen for his betrayal of Obi-wan's trust, for his brutality on an innocent child, for his slaying of the last hope of the Jedi – nay, the galaxy – was great. It was only Obi-wan's determination that he die in the Lightside, and not fall as Darth had, that stayed his hand. 

            The twin suns were setting now, casting a red-gold glow over the old Jedi's face. He stared into the desert with unseeing eyes. 

            By all the gods…_Anakin. Luke_. Obi-wan wept in his soul for them. But no tear fell from his eyes. 

---

AN: Oooh-kay. Obviously, major AU here. I ask the readers to please give it a chance; I'm still working on Child of the Sands, but this thing just begged and begged to be written, until, well, here it is. (also, chapter II of 'Child' was in my IBM…which was just hauled off for repairs…) I promise to overcome the usual Cyberwolf slothfulness in putting up chapters; one every three days, at least until chapter 5; I haven't got a clue on where to go from there. I'm certain it will pick up, though. ^_^ Hehehe…especially if helped along by the reviews, comments and suggestions of kind, generous readers. 

Oh yeah, I don't own any of the Star Wars characters, they belong to George Lucas (blessed be His name) I do own any original characters or scenarios that will crop up in this series. And no, before you ask, no Mary Sues. All new characters have bit roles. And none of them will be Force-strong geniuses to replace Luke or Leia. I swear! 


	2. Slicer

It was a dream and then it hit me 

_Reality struck and now my life is all shifty_

_And it all moves fast_

_Props to the prop fifty, we all stand strong_

_Respect to my family, in times of insanity_

_In the words of futility, I describe all d*** forcing on family_

_Blood brothers keep it real to the end_

_Deeper than the flux, you think, not a trend_

            -Blood Brothers, Papa Roach 

            The boy crouched behind the trash receptacle, predator-eyes tracking his chosen prey. He was small, young and not large for his age, but with a whipcord readiness about him that moved others to be wary. They became even more wary if ever they came close enough to see his eyes. His eyes weren't old or jaded, as the eyes of other youngsters in his situation got – they were just plain ice, with no soul behind them to be old or jaded. Suddenly those eyes narrowed, gaze snapping into laser intensity. 

            The prey was moving. 

            He half-rose out of his crouch, tensing his muscles. 

            The well-dressed Anatolian, obviously a businessman or trader of some wealth, passed by the trash receptacle.

            He sprung. 

            The Anatolian was startled by the attack, letting out a shrill cry as _something_ hit the back of his knees. The long-legged alien was particularly sensitive there, and pain flared as he lost his balance. Almost before he knew he had fallen, he could see a small human boy scrambling up from the tangle they were in. The waif got to his feet swiftly and ran off, clutching the Anatolian's wallet in his grubby hands.

            The Anatolian yelled and gave chase. The boy ducked and weaved through the daily traffic of Mos Eisley's crowded streets, navigating the flood of life and vehicles with the ease of the native-born. No one paid him much attention, nor to the pursuing alien. Just another incident with some _reashid _(Tatooine slang for fool) and one of the many street-children of the city. 

            Anatolians were fast runners, and despite the boy's surprising dexterity and his knowledge of the area, he never quite succeeded in shaking his enraged alien tail. Finally, the boy ducked into a deserted alley. The Anatolian followed, a jeer crossing his green-scaled face as he saw the boy backed up to a wall. Obviously, the little street-rat didn't know his city as well as he thought.

            "Give me back my wallet, you _georshal_," he snarled, his Basic sounding faintly hissing in the manner of all his race. 

            Suddenly the boy smirked, and the Anatolian felt the tell-tale pricklings of danger on his shoulders-blades. He spun around, to see two other human boys blocking off the alley opening. Unlike the other, these were quite large, nearing their manhood, well-muscled, and holding vibroknives that glittered in a most disconcerting way. 

            The taller one, with an old scar creating a crescent of pale tissue on his cheek, spoke. "I think the lizard-face has just insulted our fellow Riyu." He flicked his amber gaze to his companion, a stockier, more muscular youth with long stringy brown hair. "What d'you think, Rase? Do we do the proper thing and take revenge?"

            The other boy didn't bother to reply; he just gave a low, nasty chuckle that chilled the Anatolian's blood.   
            A couple of Imperial Stormtroopers out on 'patrol' would find the Anatolian later that day. He was alive. Alive, yes, but rather slashed up, the gashes deep enough for scars he would carry for the rest of his days. And bereft of his tailored suit, his datapads, comlink, and jewelry.

            And, of course, his wallet.

***

            The three boys galloped down the Mos Eisley streets, laughing and howling with the exhilaration of a successful and profitable 'job'. Rase yelled to his taller friend: "Kriffing hells, Daich, that offworlder fool must have been carrying his entire _year's_ paycheck on him. And that ain't counting the 'pads and flash…"

            Daich grinned smugly. "Told you, din' I? Din' I know he'd be a good mark?"

            The younger boy ran easily alongside the older ones, seeming to be in no danger of being left behind. Those eyes that had been nothing but pure ice earlier that day were now quite human again, the eyes of a boy looking at his hero as he gazed at Daich. "Did I do it right, huh Daich? I got him to the alleyway all right?"

            Daich grinned fondly as he reached down to ruffle the blond spikes on the kid's head. "You did great, Slicer. Really great." And he meant it. Because of Slicer, his gang of street-kids was able to pull off more jobs, more profitable ones, than before. All because of one little kid. He ruffled Slicer's hair again, genuine affection in his tone. 

He'd found the boy wandering the streets of Mos Eisley, maybe two or three years back now, and had brought him into his gang. He didn't know why, then – but he was certain, now, that it had been his innate good luck. He'd taught Slicer how to survive on the streets, and Slicer had made it possible for Daich and his gang to do a little more than just _survive_. 

The kid was special, there was no doubt about it. He was a better hand with machines – any type, hardware or software, but most especially anything to do with flying craft – than anyone Daich had ever seen. He wasn't half-bad in a fight, either, and the fact that his small size made opponents underestimate him was a valuable advantage. 

It was more than that, however. It was just…he _knew_ things. He dreamed something, and it would happen. Or on a job, he'd know if the target was about to change his mind or what. The kid was invaluable. 

Not just because of what he could do. Slicer was Daich's little brother in everything but blood, and Daich was as protective of him as a mother krayt dragon with her eggs. Well, as protective as one could be with a ten-year-old boy determined to get in as much trouble as his hero.

The boys reached the gang's hideout, an old abandoned building that had a hidden underground level. Even if the building was demolished, as it should have been years ago, the boys would still have their hangout. They took turns in skidding down the tunnel-slide that led to the hidden level. 

Daich was the first one to land. The baker's dozen or so other children there – mostly human, though with a few alien kids – turned from whatever they were doing to focus on the young boy who was their leader. Daich swiveled as he heard the thumps of Rase and Slicer landing behind him. He pulled them forward, announcing as he did so, "Fellow Riyus," using the name of the gang, "wait till you see the haul we got on this!" He held up a fistful of credit notes, grinning, and Rase and Slicer began to unpack the datapads, clothes and flash (jewelry) that could be fenced. The kids cheered the three young thieves; such a good yield meant they could eat fairly well for the next week or so – for it was the Riyus' policy to share whatever they…earned. 

Slicer beamed in the acclaim and feelings of camaraderie and friendship. He looked up, and met Daich's affectionate amber-eyed gaze. He smiled at his 'older brother'.

 The boy who had once been Luke Skywalker could not remember feeling so happy before.


	3. Runaway

_Everything you say to me_

_Takes me one step closer to the edge_

_And I'm about to break_

_I need a little room to breathe_

_Cos I'm one step closer to the edge_

_And I'm about to break_

_            -One Step Closer, Linkin Park_

            Luke hadn't been quite eight years old when he ran away from the Lars homestead. It had been six months since Beru Lars had died in a Tusken Raider attack, and not only was Luke stripped of the only source of comfort and love he had ever known, but Owen Lars had seemed to take out all his anger and sorrow at the loss of his wife on the boy.

            Owen had never hesitated to use corporal punishment on Luke, but it had gotten worse after Beru's death. The beatings were longer, harder, no longer with Owen's hand but with his belt or even a stick, sometimes. And it seemed like Luke invited beatings with everything he did – not just his daydreaming, but with the way he did his work, the way he _didn't_ do his work, the way he spoke to Owen…

            There was no respite. Owen often forgot to cook meals for the boy, and he beat Luke if he saw the child trying to prepare his own meals or sneaking food, so Luke grew thinner and less able to withstand the beatings. 

            Miserable, half-starved, and in constant pain, Luke often wished he had perished with his aunt in the Raider attack. 

One day, Luke had accidentally dropped a hydrospanner into the innards of the landspeeder Owen told him to fix. Owen never gave acknowledgement to Luke's impossible understanding of mechanics and engineering, when he fixed things beyond most seven-year-olds' abilities, but he was quick to notice when Luke messed his tasks up. His face nearly mottled with rage, he fetched a belt lying – unfortunately – close to hand, and gave Luke a beating. 

            This was the breaking point. Owen strode off, cursing under his breath and drinking from the flask of liquor that had become his too-frequent companion, leaving his nephew crying on the garage floor. He failed to detect the note of rage in between the sobs of pain.

            Nightfall came, and Owen had not come to check up on Luke. This was good. The beating was mild, as Owen's beatings went, and with a bandage or two, Luke was up and moving with only a bit of a limp. He limped around the garage, filling a bag with various useful odds and ends. He snuck back to the house, tiptoed past the kitchen where Owen lay snoring and passed out on the table, and grabbed food, a few tunics, pants and his desert boots. He stuffed these into the bag, except for the boots – these he pulled onto his feet, packing the rubber-soled sports shoes he'd been wearing. Lastly, he crept down into the underground cistern. The door was locked with a digital scanner, but Luke easily cracked the nearly-ancient system. (Owen was not a big believer in getting the latest technology) He filled eight liquid-packs from the reservoir, all the while with one ear cocked to listen for Owen suddenly waking up and storming down to punish him for his water-thievery. The filling of the liquid-packs passed without incident, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he crept back up. Thus equipped, he set out.

            He left the Lars farm at sunset. He had no compass, but something inside Luke told him which direction to head. He walked for the whole of the night, making use of the chill of the sunless period, and continued through the morning. When the twin suns were nearly at their peak, and the heat all but unbearable, Luke dug a hole in the sand and buried himself, staying in the relatively cooler underlayer of sand to wait out the hottest part of the day. He had learnt his lessons at survival school well.

            He walked for three days and nights, resting only when he buried himself in sand to wait out the full rage of the twin suns. He husbanded his food and water well, drawing on a source of strength more potent than food or water to augment his child's body for the long journey.

            Finally, just as Tatoo I began to rise on the fourth day, Luke arrived at Mos Eisley, largest – and most dangerous – city on Tatooine. 

*** 

            Later, Luke would know how lucky he was that the first person he met was Daich, and that the then-thirteen-year-old decided right away – practically on the spot – to take him under his wing. He even let him keep most of his stuff. Daich did take away some of his better clothing; it would make him too conspicuous a mark, he told him.

            Luke found himself a member of the Riyus a day after arriving. Daich vouched for him so stoutly, and he was so eager to please, that none of the other gang members had any trouble accepting him.

            He spent the first two weeks of his new life just following Daich and the others around, learning the rhythms and patterns of life on the Mos Eisley streets. Whenever Daich and the others had a 'job', Daich would hide the small boy somewhere close by, but not let him participate. He made Luke watch, though, and from the watching, learn. 

Owen's behavior for the last six months had effectively beat out of Luke any squeamishness about seeing people inflict violence on others, and so he had little trouble watching the Riyus hold up other people for money. Or seeing them pickpocket, or engage in turf wars with other gangs. 

Two weeks later, Daich began teaching Luke to fight. The small blond boy also began to carry his weight within the Riyus; he didn't go on 'jobs' with the older ones yet, but like the younger ones, he did things like stand guard, run errands and carry messages for the various crimelords and spacers of Mos Eisley. 

A few months after Luke's arrival, Daich robbed an old Ithoran. The dark-haired boy fled with some credits and a pair of macrobinoculars. The macrobinoculars were so beat-up, though, that Daich thought they were trash. 

Luke fixed them.

This was the first indication that Daich had that his new 'little brother' had certain…talents. From then on, he passed no opportunity to take pieces of machinery, broken-down and worse, to Luke. He had little problem fixing them up well enough to be used or sold for credits. Then someone had the bright notion of checking whether or not his talent extended to the software side. It did, though not so far. Luke could crack many of the digital security systems all over Mos Eisley, those protecting homes and vehicles, and the Riyus began their career of breaking-and-entering.

It was due to this that he gained the nickname Slicer. He was better with hardware, but there was more call for his software skills. The days flew by, happy and hot and exciting, filled with close shaves with the law and disgruntled victims, more lessons on surviving, chances to play with fascinating bits of machinery and programming. His life before the Riyus began to assume the aspect of a dream…a bad dream.


	4. Tagging the Wall

_In what distant deeps or skies_

_Burnt the fire of thine eyes_

_On what wings dare he aspire_

_What the hand dare seize the fire_

_ -Tyger, Tyger_

AN: This chapter occurs two years after the previous ones

Slicer turned onto his back and yawned, eyelids beginning to flutter. He sat up, stretching his arms over his head, coming to full wakefulness slowly…and yelping with indignation as he saw his fellow Riyus already tucking into breakfast. 

He sprang out of bed and hurried over, pulling a gray tee-shirt on as he moved. He wrestled briefly with a young Kash'ti for a seat around the slab of spaceship hull that was the Riyus' main table, before shoving him to the side for enough free space to sit. He grabbed a hunk of bread and started chewing. 

The Kash'ti to his side jabbed him in the ribs, before grinning and continuing his own breakfast. A'bian also fed his pet, an offworlder lizard now seated on his furry shoulder. 

For some reason, though A'bian was one of his best friends among the Riyus, Slicer didn't like the lizard. Being around it made his head feel…fuzzy. 

Daich, who had finished his own breakfast earlier, was busy sharpening one of his brace of throwing knives. Slicer hurried to join him, gulping down the remnants of his breakfast and swiping a mouthful of bantha's milk from A'bian's mug (prompting an enraged cry). "Hi, Daich!" he chirped. 

Daich looked up and chuckled. "Hey, kid," he said. 

"What we gonna do today, Daich?"

"Nothing," Daich answered, picking up his whetstone again. 

"Oh, cool…what?"

"We gotta lay low for a while, kid," Daich told him. "Let the heat die down a bit. That last heist we pulled has got the Imps pretty steamed."

Slicer smirked. "Serves them right for leaving that warehouse so unguarded. They shouldn't put so much faith in security droids."

"They were actually pretty well-constructed, weren' they though?" Daich mused. "All them sensors and that armor…whoo! And they weren't exactly light on the firepower side neither."

"Fat lot of help it did them, once we pirated the command stream…"

Daich turned a sharp glance on his de facto younger brother. If there was one thing he wanted Slicer to learn from him, it was _never to underestimate an opponent. _"Look here, Slice; them Imps ain't stupid. Okay," he conceded, "lots of 'em are, that's why they got stuck here on Tatooine. But they have got some sharp people in command. Those droids were a good idea. It's just that…" here Daich's vaguely stern expression melted into a look of pride, "they don't know that we got ourselves someone able to hack into the encrypted files, get the blueprint for the droids, break the command-stream coding and figure out how to build a gizmo to pirate it. As I recall, it took us three weeks to get it all set up. You want to waste all that work by getting caught while they're still steaming about the heist?"

Slicer snorted his opinion of that ever happening.

"I know, I know, but still…better to give it a little time. Anyway, good as that last haul was, we don't _need_ to do anything for a while. We're pretty set. Look, Slice…why don't you spend the day at the Track?" 

Slicer's blue eyes lit up. "Hey, yeah!" He hurried off. Daich chuckled again as he watched Slicer round up the other Riyus of his age. The three of them hung out whenever one or the other wasn't needed. And they always spent free time together. He didn't expect to see them for the rest of the day.

*** 

Slicer was pulling on his piecemeal safety gear, as were the others – A'bian, his pet lizard as usual on his shoulder, and Rea Tarres, a human girl with pale brown hair, gone all streaky with sun-bleached bands of dark blond, and dark gray eyes. Just as he yanked on his helmet, a streamlined piece of racing gear he had salvaged from the wreckage of a crashed podracer, a shadow fell over him. He looked up and almost squeaked with fear.

Lianni stood above him, arms crossed, a stern expression on her pretty face. 

Lianni was, at seventeen years old, the oldest member of the Riyus. She was Daich's older sister, by blood, and the gang's older sister, by practicality. She shared her younger brother's brown-gold eyes and dark brown – almost black – hair, and his sharp, symmetrical features – shared them to such a decree they looked nearly twins. 

Lianni was the most law-abiding of the Riyus – in fact, she steadfastly refused to take part in any of the jobs. She instead functioned as, basically, the medic, cook and older sister of the Riyus, patching up wounds, fixing meals, and scolding the Riyus whenever they went on something that seemed too dangerous. And of course, she focused her efforts on Daich and Slicer.

'It's alright for Daich,' Slicer thought bitterly, 'he can just laugh and do it anyway, he's leader! But me…'

"Luke Skywalker," Lianni said, using Slicer's full name, the only one who did so, "You're going to the Track again, aren't you?"

Slicer, wincing at her use of his real name, turned to face the tall girl with what he hoped was an endearing grin. "Lianni, look…"

"Come on, sis, let the kid have some fun." Lianni spun around to see her brother behind her, watching the proceedings lazily. "Slice won't get into trouble – he's gone there and come back with his life before, hasn' he? The kid deserves a break."

Lianni fumed, but knew that if Daich had it in his head to help Luke go, there really wasn't that much that would stop the boy. She turned back to Luke, and felt herself softening at the hopeful smile he presented her with. She moved off with a loud huff, muttering under her breath about preparing the medkit for when the young ones returned. Daich winked at the three, motioning with his hand towards the exit of the Riyus' hideout. 

They flashed him a smile of thanks before grabbing their glideboards and running out.

***

Glideboards started out as a rather expensive toy for rich kids old enough to want to fly but too young for their parents to buy them ships. The hovering, thruster-equipped boards zipped children around at a rather mild twenty km/h. They were a common sight on Coreworlds such as Coruscant and Alderaan, but rather rare out here on the Rim. 

Slicer seized upon the idea at once, after reading about it in a holomag, and immediately began to build his own. There were differences, of course. He fashioned his deck out of transparisteel from a landspeeder's windshield, making it a little wider and longer than usual to accommodate the thruster he salvaged from a downed one-man Verpine Starrunner. The repulsor fields were taken from the same. Using an 'engine' designed for a much larger craft ensured that Slicer could move much faster on his glideboard than the original designers ever intended. He then built three more glideboards for the use of the entire gang, using the junk from other ships, although the first glideboard (which he kept for his own use) had the best material. 

The three twelve-year-olds (actually, A'bian was twenty-six but that was the equivalent of an adolescent in Kash'ti terms) sped through the Mos Eisley streets with the same ease that they did on foot. In fact, they were inclined to show off a little, taking jumps and grinds whenever possible for them to do so. 

Rea gave a whoop as she used her momentum to grind her board up the side of a wagon, launching off the edge of its rails with a spectacular backflip. She landed smoothly, with scarcely a bobble, and grinned smugly at Slicer as she raced alongside him. Slicer resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her. 

Rea seemed to feel it her great purpose in life to equal and surpass Slicer in any way possible. It wasn't jealousy, exactly…it was more a determination to keep his head from being too big. Funnily enough, the only time she left him alone was when he was working on his machines. Although she did make sure to insult him more than normal whenever he gained accolades from the rest of the gang for his work. 

Yes, no chance of getting a swelled head with Rea around. Slicer sighed and, just to blow off steam, jumped straight into the air, kicking his board to make it roll over in the air once before landing sure-footedly back on the deck. 

Rea gave an audible sniff at the kickflip. 

A'bian gave his tail a flick, the Kash'ti equivalent of an amused snort. The young alien always found his more hot-headed human friends' spats an interesting spectacle. 

Finally, they arrived at the Track.

The three youths swerved into a stop, throwing up great sweeps of sand as they curved. The Track was a huge, abandoned amphitheatre that had once been used by the Hutts to run pod-races. When the pod-racing first migrated to Mos Espa, and then later died out completely, the Track was abandoned. Because it was a few miles out from the outskirts of the city, and because it had once been owned by the Hutts, no one ever went there. 

Except Slicer, Rea and A'bian, of course.

For a while they amused themselves by playing in the huge audience stands, yelling to each other to watch the tricks they pulled, jumping from row to row, grinding along the railings while avoiding falling into the arena below. Rea and Slicer ran a race through three circuits of the stands. Rea won. 

She then went up to Slicer and began yelling at him for throwing the race. He fervently denied the charge. In the end, they turned to A'bian to decide.

A'bian stroked his lizard as he said: "It's almost noon. Let's go back home and have some lunch."

When they came back from Mos Eisley, when the twin suns were a little lower in the sky, they didn't waste time doing tricks and fooling around. It was time to Tag the Wall.

The Wall in question was the large, smooth stone wall just above the 'royal' box of the Track. With spray cans of paint, the three of them had been marking the wall with their own designs and ideas. Tagging it as their own. 

Two narrow ledges, more a decoration than an access route, wound their way across the Wall. To get to them, they had to perform a huge jump across the gap from the royal box and the rest of the seats, using ramps they had constructed for that very purpose. The jump was almost fifteen feet; the first attempts had been nerve-wracking, but now, with their repeated jumps, it was nothing more than routine. 

They landed on the lower ledge with little fanfare, jumping off the boards as soon as they hit the ledge. Slicer propped his board against the wall, engaging static locks he had installed on the deck to make sure it wouldn't move; the others followed suit. He ran sure-footedly along the ledge and crouched down next to a small hole in the wall, like a tiny cupboard, covered by tacked-on dabanna weave. He moved the weather-proof cloth away with his hand, reached in and withdrew the spray cans they had left in there. He began to pass the cans to A'bian and Rea's waiting hands.

The cans were small, barely half the size of Slicer's palm, but they held in them enough compressed paint to cover a stretch of wall twelve meters high and ten feet wide. The built-in stasis pods kept the paint from drying out. 

A'bian and Rea immediately moved to the center of the wall, resuming work on the giant mural they had planned. Slicer had a project of his own in mind. He moved to one end of the wall, so far that his feet were right next to where the ledge ended. He set down the paint-cans he had grabbed from the hole in the wall on the ledge. Slicer was the worst of the three at drawing and painting; but he accepted and asked no help with this. 

'This' was a drawing of a dragon. 

But not a krayt dragon, like what was seen in the wilds of Tatooine; this dragon had a huge wedge-shaped head, almost like a horse's (Slicer had seen a picture of a horse in a holobook once) except that horses didn't have horns extending from the back of the head, and huge fangs, and eyes that were a gleaming slit-pupiled gold. The head was attached to a long, sinuous neck that continued down to a great chest, deep and muscular, that was nothing more than in proportion with the rest of the torso. Four legs ending in huge gleaming claws supported the dragon's powerful body. A long tail, spike-ended and thick, was coiled around the dragon's hind legs. Half-extended from the creature's shoulder blades were a pair of vast, majestic wings. The dragon contrasted sharply with the hammer-headed, stubby-necked, tail-less build of the squat krayt dragons; this was a sleek creature, built for the wind and sky as the krayt were built to hunker to the land.

Slicer had used only dark colors to paint the dragon, dark blue and violet and black, all deep shades – shades of the night. Except for the eyes, and the fangs – he used gold and white for that. They were slashes of brightness against the dark bulk of the dragon. He had been especially careful in painting the wings – they were the defining characteristic of the dragon. He spraypainted a long line of black down the right wing, sketching a curve to emphasize the wing's fold. When he was done, he took a step back, surveying his handiwork.

The dragon's golden eyes glared down at him. The great draconic body was drawn in profile, belly low to the ground, ready to spring to the sky – or for prey. The long neck was curved so that one confronted the dragon face-to-face. 

Just like in his dream. 

*** 

Rea looked up from painting a girl on a glideboard to watch Slicer step back from his work. He tilted his head up, assessing what he had done. He seemed oddly intense, in the same way he got whenever he had the innards of a machine spread out on his worktable or the innards of a computer system on his screen, running a hand through blond hair bleached nearly white by the suns. 

The movement brought Rea's mind back to a night a few days ago, when she had ribbed Slicer about his scruffy hair. To her shock, he had taken it seriously and gone to Lianni, asking for a haircut. 

The girl had been delighted; her mania about keeping the Riyus as respectable-looking as possible included a hatred of long hair. 'Made them look like thugs' was her reason. When Daich once made the mistake of pointing out that, technically, they were half-way to _being_ thugs, she had gone into a towering rage. Daich never mentioned it again, and he still had to subsist on gruel for two weeks until she began cooking him meals again.

So, of course, she had been more than happy to give her 'little brother' the haircut he requested. She'd razored the hair on the sides and back very short, but hardly touched the front, doing only a little trimming on the bangs. When it was done, Lianni clapped her hands, thrilled by her handiwork.

Slicer had gone up to her and asked, a challenging note in his voice, if he and his newly-trimmed hair now met her standards. She could not find a reply for a minute, but finally rallied with some sarcastic one-liner; she couldn't remember it now. Slicer had smirked.

The trimming had given him a hairstyle which, while neater, had a tendency to fall into his face. True enough, a wave of silver-blond hair flopped into his eyes; Slicer shoved it back with an impatient hand, keeping his eyes fixed on his design on the Wall.

Rea followed his line of sight, stepping back herself in order to better observe the dragon. Slicer had always been the one with the least amount of artistic talent among the three of them; nevertheless, Rea had to admire the work he had produced. The lines were clean, flowing, the colors well-picked. Rea had never seen a creature like the one Slicer had painted on the walls; still, the way he had drawn the musculature and limbs of the creature seemed right. He had even done the shading properly, something that usually gave him a great deal of problems. 

Yes, Rea decided while studying the dragon, he had done it well.

"Hey, Slice," she called to her friend, making his head snap to the side. "That's a right _dalis_ (Tatooine slang for well-done) piece of graffiti. You done? Want to help me and A'bian with the mural?" she asked, gesturing towards the mural with one spray can. 

Slicer shook his head. "Sorry, Rea, ain't quite done yet. Just one last little detail to do…" 

He squeezed past them, grabbing his glideboard from where it leaned against the Wall. Rea noticed him sticking a can of silver spraypaint into one of his cargo pockets. Slicer gave her a jaunty wave, called, "Wish me luck!" and used the board to jump to the other row of seats.

"What's he doing?" Rea asked, frowning in puzzlement. She turned, ignoring the mural, to watch the other twelve-year-old skate away. A'bian turned as well, though he kept using his nearly prehensile tail to fill in the area he was currently painting. 

"Who knows what Slicer's _ever_ going to do?" he asked.

*** 

Slicer stopped the board a good fifteen yards away from the end of the row of seats, away from the ramp. The ramp facing the dragon he had drawn from his dreams. He re-checked his safety gear, tightening straps, adjusting positions. He knew he should be nervous about what he was about to do, but he was not. 

He knew he could do it. 

He removed the can of silver spraypaint from his pocket, shaking the can vigorously. He lightly pressed the top of the can, sending a tiny spritz of paint into the air, to clear the nozzle. 

He set one foot to the ground and pushed off. The board shot forward like a blaster bolt. He carefully moved one foot to the edge of the board, depressing a switch there. The board's thrusters flared with a blue-white light, engaged fully for the first time. The board went forward even faster. Slicer crouched down slightly as his momentum built. 

"Time to fly," he whispered.

The board reached the ramp, going very fast now. It cleared the edge, and suddenly he was soaring.

*** 

_Excerpt from a conversation with Mical di'Tagel, Commander of Imperial TIE Fighter Squadron Omega Flight_

_"What makes a good fighter pilot? Oh, loads and loads of things – good eyes, steady nerves, courage, intelligence, a fair bit of insanity…too many to name, actually. Some can be learnt and developed by anyone, some are just born into, some are a mix of both. Hmm, though…I'll tell you a characteristic I've noticed in all truly great pilots. _

_ They know trajectories, flight paths, you know – all those physics and geometry. That is not to say they're mathematical geniuses, that they can do calculations really fast or anything. If that were the case, then any of those yahoos at the Maw Installation could hop into a TIE and get a medal. Naw…it's more that they don't NEED to do any calculations. They take one look at a ship's flight path and can put their craft into a line of ascent that will take will take them to an intercept point precisely when they want; they can predict where a ship will crash-land by a glimpse of its descent; they judge distances and estimate how and where a ship will move. _

_ Have you ever seen a holomovie where the hotshot-pilot-character stands the craft on its side to slip through a tight squeeze, or hugs the shadow of some cruiser? Yeah, a good pilot can do that, but you ever think how much brainwork is involved in putting your ship through its paces like that?How far to the right, what angle to approach at, where to squeeze through – teachers have been using the routine decisions of pilots as examples of advanced mathematics problems for ages. If it was all calculation, then pilots would need to be permanently hooked up to a computer. Nope…a good pilot does it all without thinking."_

_***_

"What's the idiot doing?" Rea hissed, fear and shock having reduced her voice to nothing more than a whisper. "He's hit that ramp too fast…he's going to overshoot the ledge!"

A'bian watched his friend go soaring into the air, his black eyes narrowing as he tracked Slicer's flight. "I don't think he was aiming for the _ledge_…"

*** 

Slicer's attention had snapped down into a single, laser-bright point. It always got like that when he was flying, or working on machines…or, sometimes, when he was fighting. 

He flew high, the deck of the board side-by-side with the surface of the wall – so close, sparks flew from the contact. He pressed the top of the can, and a thin silver stream flowed, to mark the wall. Here was where the tail began to curve down; Slicer pressed his foot into the front of the deck, making the board dip, following the curve of the tail exactly. It began to curve up again, into the body – he slid his foot back, into the tail of the board. The nose went up; the thrusters flared again, adjusting to this new demand to defy gravity. 

He pressed harder on the tail; the board's nose rose again, like he'd done a wheelie in mid-air, as he traced the line of the dragon's neck. He came to the top of the neck, and ended the whole session…by kicking out at the wall, sending the board violently to the side. 

He let go of the can of spraypaint. It fell alongside him, a shining spot of silver as the suns hit its metal skin. The nose of the board pointed down, putting the board on a slope so steep that the board was nearly vertical as it headed for the ground. Slicer let loose a whoop of sheer excitement. With one hand, he held the tail of the board, maneuvering it to spin into an Indy 720. He landed on the sandy surface of the track with a muffled whump, sending up sand exactly as if he'd made a big splash on the surface of one of those…what was the word – oh yeah, lakes…he'd read about in holobooks. 

He grinned, feeling pleased with himself, as he waved cheerily to Rea and A'bian, who were gaping at him open-mouthed. He turned, to look at the dragon – with a new silver ridge running down its spine, to the very end of its tail. The ridge he had just sprayed on. 

Now the dragon was complete. He had Tagged the Wall. In his mind, he named the dragon – for it had assumed a personality, a spirit, to him as he painted it. It was a creature built and born for the sky, so he gave it his own name. Skywalker.

***

AN: Whoo, this is the longest _Break_ chapter yet. So, we've seen how Luke (now Slicer) spends his days. Not much development of the plot here, just a glimspe of how he lives – however, certain parts of this day foreshadow Luke's future…and they may not be the parts you think. If you think you've found the hint, review and tell me! I'll post the next part when a person reviews and gets it! ^_^

Oh yeah, the dragon Luke was painting – I've had a specific dragon-picture in mind. It was of this absolutely gorgeous book-cover, of the fantasy book 'Cormyr: The Novel'. I found a copy of the image on the web; if you want to look at it, check this URL…

Hope you enjoyed, and please review! Please, please, _please _review. 


	5. A Gathering of Forces

You run around 

_I run around_

_We're all gonna run-run-run around _

_            -Run Around, Digimon: The Movie OST_

Darth Vader was not happy. 

            The Dark Lord of the Sith strode through the halls of his Super Star Destroyer, _Executor_, with all the fury of the craftsman whose masterpiece was just destroyed. 

            In a way, that's what he was.

            In his long-ago past as Anakin Skywalker, Vader had always had a predilection for machines. He'd been a special hand with droids, in particular – a bit of an irony, considering that his body was nearly fifty percent droid parts now. As a child, he'd put together droids, real, functioning droids, with the bits of scrap he could scrounge around. He'd built his mother a protocol droid to help with the house; later, in the Jedi Temple, with his advanced training and the greater resources he now had available, he'd built so many droids that the Jedi Order had to start giving them out. He hadn't made or modified a droid since that damned Kenobi had pushed him into the lava; that is, he hadn't until eight standard months ago. 

            Then, for some strange reason, he had had a burst of creativity which ended with the design for a new security droid lying complete and whole in front of him. The design had been advanced beyond anything else in existence, powerful and fast and with a whole new AI system that made them – in Vader's opinion – smarter than many stormtroopers. He'd presented the designs to his Master, who put them into production at once. Vader felt a smirk curving his mouth at the memory. His new droids, the XR-25 series, had bumped the Maw Installation's latest project off the assembly line, and the eggheads weren't pleased. They complained and whined, pointing out 'flaws' in the design (which Vader proved false with no problem) until it was 'leaked' to them exactly who had designed the XR-25. 

             You never saw people perform such a total change in opinion so quickly before. 

            Vader smirked again, but felt his mood sour as he reviewed more recent memories. The XR had been put into use on many planets - Coruscant, Corellia, Alda and Tyr to name a few - and always performed admirably. Certain planets who had treaties with the Empire never to let stormtroopers on-planet could not protest when the Empire began landing the XR troops instead. 

            Yes, the XR had performed as well as Vader intended – until now. There had been a breach – a _massive_ breach – of security in the city of Mos Eisley, in Tatooine. Tatooine was the first Rimworld to receive a troop of the XR-25; and they had failed within a month of their arrival. The Emperor himself wasn't worried, what with the XR's obvious successes on other worlds – he tossed it off to the extreme conditions on Tatooine affecting the droids. Vader knew that it wasn't so. He had grown up on Tatooine himself, and always designed his droids as a matter of course to stand up to the weather conditions there. Most designers made their droids under the assumption of ideal conditions, and then added special weather gear as needed; he didn't. It was an ingrained habit that had proven useful. They _shouldn't_ have broken down under Tatooine conditions, so _why did they?_

            He reached the _Executor_'s bridge, slapping one black-gauntled hand against the door-pad. It slid open with a hydraulic hiss, and Vader strode inside. He could feel the crew's minds mentally close in on themselves, trying for protection, as well as see them physically recoil away from him. His anger and frustration were as palpable around him as his black cloak, and considering how dangerous he was usually, it was no wonder his crew reacted the way they did. 

            "Admiral Piett, set course for planet Tatooine."

            He would see for himself what had happened to his XR-25 droids. 

*** 

            Bail Organa was not happy.

            He looked over at his twelve-year-old daughter, Leia, who was across him at the huge state table. The Organas were eating breakfast. Leia, with bags under her eyes and her already pale skin taking on a definite pallor, hung over her pundi rice porridge with such a weary stance that Bail half-feared that she would fall asleep right then and there, doing a spectacular and splashy faceplant into her breakfast.

            Leia had been having dreams. Dreams which, while not exactly nightmares – well, not always – kept her awake half the night, and made the sleep she did manage to catch shallow and unrestful. Dreams that haunted her thoughts throughout the day, so that her tutors reported that she drifted off into trances – not mere daydreams, trances that actually required effort for her to emerge from – in the middle of her lessons. Since Leia was a child who enjoyed learning, a joy for her tutors to teach, this concerned Bail very much.

            Leia had told him that she dreamed of a great desert, lit by twin suns. And of a fair-haired boy with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Leia didn't know what she was dreaming, but Bail did. He'd often caught himself wondering exactly how much Leia remembered of her twin brother. Sometimes Leia would say or do something that seemed to suggest that she knew she was missing a presence beside her. But this was not merely a child missing her twin – it was something of the Force. The Force was reaching out to Leia. 

            Bail gave a sigh, and reached a decision. Somehow, Leia was meant to go to Tatooine. Alderaan did have that water-exchange treaty in negotiation with the desert planet. It was a bit unconventional, but it did give him an excuse to meet with the titular head of Tatooine, the Imperial Governor, there – and to take his daughter along for the state trip.

*** 

            Obi-wan Kenobi was not happy.

            He looked into his empty food storage unit and gave a sigh. He needed to head into Anchorhead and pick up some more supplies. He started up his ancient landspeeder, tossing a box of machine parts into the back to barter with. As he traveled across the desert, he gave another passing thought to the possibility of just not getting supplies and letting himself starve to death. He had been vaguely suicidal (and, concerning Owen, vaguely _homicidal_ as well) since Luke's death, due to depression, guilt and anger. All in all, he was not the perfect picture of a Jedi fully in tune with the Lightside. 

            But he needed to stay alive, and in the Light. Luke was dead, but Leia still lived. Obi-wan wished he did, but he didn't fully believe that Leia could defeat the darkness creeping over the galaxy. Yoda said she could, but Yoda hadn't been there at the birth of the twins. Leia didn't have…the brightness, the fire, of her brother. But then again, what did he know? She might have had it, and he hadn't seen it because he was Force-blinded for a second by the commotion of Luke's birth – the boy had been firstborn. Or she could have developed it while she grew up. Obi-wan wasn't exactly a stellar judge of what the Force meant for people. 

Anyway, he owed it to Leia, to Yoda and to the galaxy to stay alive, to help with the Skywalker girl's (no matter who had adopted her, she would always be a Skywalker to Obi-wan) training when the time came. 

When he got to Anchorhead, he found that the general store was currently in the midst of inventory and couldn't sell him anything. 

'A Jedi is calm, at peace…a Jedi does _not_ curse…oh screw it.' The old man indulged himself in a long diatribe involving swearwords and oaths in about fifteen different dialects which left the teenaged clerk gaping at him in awe. 

Still grumbling to himself, Obi-wan hopped again in his landspeeder. He had at least been able to get enough fuel to top off his landspeeder's tank. He needed it…now he had to go all the way to Mos Eisley to pick up supplies.

*** 

Author's Note:

Okay, some people might have been slightly put off by my 'holding hostage' this chapter until I got enough reviews. (by the way, the people who reviewed, I love you to bits, and this chapter is dedicated to you) But hey, you've got to look at it from my view: I work hard on this chapter, and I know thousands of people are reading it (and this makes me happy, it really does) but not even twenty bother to click the little button on the bottom of the the page and leave a little note. Please, you guys, these reviews are the only impetus I have to keep writing. Look, the quality and frequency of chapters is directly proportional to the amount of reviews I get, this has been scientifically proven. I'm sure those of you who are also ff.net writers can testify to the rush getting a good review gets you. Or even not a good review, but a long one. This proves that people like or at least pay attention to what you're doing. If they're not, then what's the point?

Okay, done with my rant/plea/beg. I hope I didn't come across as too pathetic. ^_^

This is the first chapter _not_ focusing on Luke, huh? Well, this is the last chapter I've worked on. That means there is no next chapter in my mind or in production. Thing is, I am not sure what to write next. This has four options, you see: Leia can meet her twin; Obi-wan can meet the boy he thought he'd lost; or Vader can start hunting for the one who broke his droids. Or all three can happen, but which to write first? 

  
I rely on you, my dear readers, to decide. Come on, give your input. What do _you_ think would be the most interesting? 

Ja ne! ^_^ 

03-16-01

Oh, BTW, if anyone cares, something major to my college app is going down. Could you spare me a thought in your evening prayers or whatnot? (wow, has there been enough soliciting in this AN or what?) 


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